Westword-Real bikers use The Jeter

My kids are learning how to ride bicycles, and we are so proud. We couldn’t be prouder.

Wicked Local

Writer

Posted Sep. 27, 2013 at 12:01 AM
Updated Sep 27, 2013 at 11:16 PM

Posted Sep. 27, 2013 at 12:01 AM
Updated Sep 27, 2013 at 11:16 PM

WESTWOOD

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My kids are learning how to ride bicycles, and we are so proud. We couldn’t be prouder.

Well, I suppose we could be prouder. I mean, hypothetically, they could have taken one look at the bikes, hopped on, and started motoring around at top speed, convincing us within minutes that by the time they hit their teenage years, they will have conquered L’Alpe d’Huez and delivered the champion’s Yellow Jersey back to les Etats. Then, perhaps, we might be a little prouder.

But that hasn’t happened, and instead we are chasing them around parking lots and driveways, seeing how many hours of practice we can squeeze out of them before the first snowfall consigns their shiny little kid-sized bikes to the basement or a corner of the garage.

So, at this point, some of you are saying, “Hey, wait a minute now, we are real bikers. We ride our bikes all year long. We don’t quit just because it’s wintertime. We are dedicated and focused; and while we’re at it, pal, would you shovel and salt the sidewalk in front of your house a little more thoroughly?”

If you are one of those real bikers, I would kindly (but seriously) ask you to turn the page at this time. Go directly to the sports section, or the classifieds, or Landry’s. Do not read on. I’ll see you in two weeks.

Okay, are they all gone?

So, I’m driving up Clapboardtree Street a few days ago. I pass Thatcher Street and slow down, approaching the four-way stop. There is a real biker in front of me. Real bikers are easily distinguishable from casual bicyclists, because they are in full, brightly-colored, Tour-de-France-ready spandex. They also wear something on their head that looks like a kayak, but is (so I’m told, and unless you are impaled by it) actually a very safe helmet.

Anyway, you know how it is always difficult when passing a real biker, and I can tell from the closure rate that it is going to be a close call as to whether or not I get to him before the intersection. So I slow down a little more, hoping to avoid any issues.

I have now crawled past that split, where you can bear right and connect up to Nahatan Street. Cars are coming non-stop the other way, so I know I couldn’t pass the real biker now anyway, and that is fine with me. I keep rolling slowly up toward the stop sign. Finally he gets there, with me a good 25 feet behind him.

He doesn’t acknowledge the other cars there, or wait his turn. He just darts out, turns left, and gives me “The Jeter” (this refers to how the Yankees’ Derek Jeter calls time out before every pitch by basically holding his palm up to the umpire’s face.) And although I had maintained a sizable distance between us, he added quite an angry glare to The Jeter, and then headed off down Nahatan Street. I just shook my head. It was not the first time I have ever received someone’s misdirected wrath.

Page 2 of 2 - One of my all-time favorites—this might have been in the city, if memory serves—was the guy I had to pass about 10 different times. We kept coming to red lights, and he would just blast through, since as we know, real bikers are not required to follow the same laws as cars. I would stop, then go on green and pass him after a while, only to have the, um, cycle repeated at the next light. We finally came to a red light with some tight quarters and traffic, and he tried to maneuver between cars to get to the intersection so that he could go through the red light. But he couldn’t fit, and he was yelling at me and gesturing at me, as though somehow I should have moved out of his way.

The light turned green and I started driving away. Did I give him The Jeter? Of course not. I would never do that. Well, I would rarely do that. Okay, I kind of did that.

Look, I know that many car drivers are incredibly selfish or stupid when it comes to the rules of the road. Cars, motorcycles, bikes, pedestrians – there are dummies among them all, and one need only spend time on the roads to have that point hammered home. I’ll solve all these world problems later. For now, I just want my kids to learn to pedal, and to enjoy their bikes.

But I’m on record here, folks. Even if they become Tour de France champions, if I see them out on Clapboardtree Street weaving through traffic or giving someone The Jeter…the Gem and I are changing the locks.

Okay, on to the sports section…

Jay Resha’s column “Westword” appears bi-weekly in the Westwood Press. For reader feedback, hate mail, etc., contact him at jayresha1@yahoo.com or on Twitter@wwestword. Previous columns can be found online at www.WickedLocalWestwood.com.